


no charm equal to tenderness of the heart

by ohtempora



Category: Duel With Manuel - Ppallo (Tweet), Undisclosed Fandom
Genre: Duelling, F/M, Multi, Regency, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: “Darling,” he says.She looks up at him. “My dearest.”He gestures. “Might I ask. You have prepared a luncheon?”
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	no charm equal to tenderness of the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mriaow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mriaow/gifts).



> Set in a (slightly) askew version of Regency England. Happy Yuletide, mriaow!
> 
> Based, of course, on this tweet: https://twitter.com/Ppallo/status/1303385018157408256

“Darling,” he says. 

She looks up at him. “My dearest.”

He gestures. “Might I ask. You have prepared for us a luncheon?”

“Ah, yes.” His wife is dressed smartly for the day, outfitted for the wicked occasion. She has substituted her usual silken slippers for sturdy leather boots, and has chosen her second-best riding habit; a wise choice, considering she is to witness a duel. Her hair is neatly pinned and curled away from her face. “I thought we should not come home hungry. Besides, the weather may turn good. I have asked Cook to make up some sandwiches, and there is half a fruit pie.” 

A tableau: husband and wife, surrounded by sandwiches and swords. The picnic basket, a wedding gift from some dowager aunt. The swords, an inheritance, befitting two families with ancient holdings. The pie, a miraculous leftover. Cook is quite skilled. Pies do not last so long in this home. 

“Darling,” he says again. “I fear - it is Manuel, and we are to meet in Battersea fields. If we are truly lucky, you shall picnic besides two bodies instead of one.”

She picks up one of the swords and hefts it. “This was your grandfather’s, was it not?"

“Aye, it was.” 

She nods, testing the edge. “Perhaps it will bring luck. As for the luncheon, you have your honor. I am your second, but you must know, as the lady of the house, I am expected to be a gracious host.”

“You mean to distract him with Cook’s pie?”

“I would never presume.” She hands him the sword. Their hands brush, and he feels that same thrill he did six years ago, the first time they danced. He remembers it well. It was the Earl of Westmoreland’s ball, her first season. He had not known much about her. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. Something about the wicked curve of her smile drew him to her. A divine power, he thinks, for nothing less could have brought them together. He had asked her to dance, she had accepted, and what a wonderful beginning it was. 

He remembers Manuel, besides him, staring out across the room with his characteristic dark eyes. “We can’t all remain rakes,” he’d remarked before his embarkment across the dance floor. At the time, the remark was enough to break Manuel’s scowl. 

“This one?” He hefts the sword, same as she did. It fits well in his hand, which he does not like; perhaps if he was meeting a different man, he’d feel more glee. But pistols at dawn were never Manuel’s style. 

Manuel is the best swordsman in the British Isles, and oh, has he been tested.

“Yes,” she says. “This one.”

The ride to Battersea is windy, the clouds threatening rain, even this early in the day. Perhaps it is just as well - he does not wish to duel in the rain, but such a gloomy day befits a duel against a former friend. Manuel cuts a fine figure, sitting astride his horse waiting for them. Still handsome, though age and circumstance have carved fine lines into the corners of his face. 

He is overcome with memories of a better era — him, Manuel, and his wife, a true trio. 

They dismount. He bows. Manuel does too. No one can say he is not the utmost gentleman. This is a matter of honor, and they both are honorable men. And perhaps it is unchristian of him to cherish the surprise on Manuel’s face when he notices - “You brought your wife as your second?”

“My lady’s knowledge of swords far surpasses my own.” It is not a lie. She trained alongside her brothers at her ancestral house in Kent until she made her debut, and kept up her training even once they were engaged. It had been a lovely surprise when they were newlyweds, though it took him time to accept being bested on the training fields when they fenced.

But she was not the one who challenged Manuel. She was not the one who would fight an old friend. Honor’s a drug, he knows, but often a necessary one. 

“Truly, my lord, I am qualified at least to inspect your weapons.” His wife swings out of the saddle. “And might I add, I have prepared a luncheon.”

Manuel’s eyes, so often dark, are nearly black. “A proper lady, I see.”

“I risk my reputation enough by coming to Battersea, even in the company of my husband.” His wife sets the picnic basket down gently beside her, gentling her horse before she takes a step, until she is standing beside him. “I will not shirk my other duties. Your weapon, sir.”

With nary a further complaint, Manuel hands his saber over. His own second is a lesser lord, some second son of no repute. He will surely not be needed for the upcoming event, except to inspect Grandfather’s sword. 

His wife passes that over too, her face admirably smooth when the man fumbles the handling of it. “I do not presume, my lord,” she murmurs, and hefts Manuel’s weapon. It gleams, even in the weak light of the early morning. The sword itself has a nasty look, befitting a weapon which has taken the lives of better men. 

Truly, what they’ve become, the three of them. A duel at Battersea fields indicts the situation on its own (with apologies made to Manuel’s hapless second). They used to be thick as thieves, and he knows - it was not his marriage that caused the rift. Manuel and his wife were fast friends, drawn together by their love of battle strategy. He’d been so happy to share, so delighted in their friendship. 

“It will do,” the second announces of his grandfather’s sword. It looks so awkward in his hand. Is this a tactic of Manuel’s, to lull his opponents into a false confidence? Or was this young man his only option, no others willing to take the risk?

Their weapons are returned. His wife casts a despairing look to her picnic basket. He is ready for the usual ritual - he is not ready, he thinks to give up his life, and certainly not to a former friend. But what choice does he have? It is a manner of honor, and dignity, and duty. And he has not been lacking in anything that matters: good friends, good fortune, yes; and he is very lucky in his wife.

“Husband,” she says. “Husband, I do not think—”

“Madam,” says he. “This is not the time to speak of the pie.” He is sweating, though the sun remains hidden behind typical English rainclouds. Manuel is looking at the two of them with a quizzical twist to his handsome mouth. 

“Husband,” his wife says. “You misunderstand — the sword, if you please—” and she rolls her eyes, uncharacteristic, plucks it out of his hand and swings it up to meet Manuel in a fiery clash.

This is not what a proper English gentleman does, but his wife is no proper English gentleman.

“ _ Madam _ ,” he says, and oh, he is not scandalized — it is entirely fear that cracks his voice, makes him step almost into the line of fire. His wife is a fine hand with a sword, but she is clad in a riding habit made of heavy wool, and she is still wearing a rather stylish cap. Yet he trusts her more than he trusts anyone: it is a true boon to have found such a wonder of a woman amongst the ton. 

God, if it is him who comes home a widower. He could not bear it. 

He watches as she neatly flings the cap aside, meeting Manuel parry for parry, breath for breath. A pause, and she slashes at her skirts with her sword, shearing them neatly above the knee. The fight becomes more even after that. She has freedom of movement, and she is smart about when to press. 

But Manuel is the better fighter. Manuel is the best swordsman in all of England. 

This does not mean he will kill a lady - that is a surety. This duel, though, is so far outside the bounds of propriety. His wife draws first blood, and while he is fiercely proud of her, he is scared. The very act gives license for the unforgivable. 

Manuel slashes at her, catching her high on the arm. He watches the blood well, bright red, staining the fine fabric of her habit. He thinks of his options. He will not call for guards. There are no onlookers hiding in the misty distance to provide aid. 

He does what he must do, and steps in between them. 

His wife is the first to step back, her sword clattering out of her hands to land in the dirt. He sees her wince. It takes Manuel longer, but he shifts back as well, unwilling to slaughter an unarmed man.

“Sir,” Manuel says. “If you will not fight, then do not interfere - your lady wife is your  _ second _ .”

“My dear,” his wife says. “I almost had him to rights.”

Manuel tilts his head. “She had me closer than many men, it is true.” 

“That is what happens when you speak of nothing but fencing at balls, instead of dancing with eligible young women.” She raises her brows. “I paid attention to what you said about your technique.”

“I did miss your company.” 

He remembers that well, too. They had always encouraged Manuel to dance during the season, teasing - now that they were wed, he might as well find himself a wife. He had always demurred, brought over refreshments and cups of wine, and stayed in conversation longer than it was polite. There had been whispers, certainly. Almost everyone said that Manuel did not dance because he did not want a wife, and why would he.

None of them had cared. Even after the falling out, he doesn’t regret any of it. He steps forward and speaks: “We missed yours as well.”

Until the duel, they barely spoke for a full year. He knows they did not escape the attention of society gossips. What could break apart such a fierce friendship - a woman? But Manuel got on so well with his wife - an affair with the wife, then? But there was no proof of that - perhaps the spots of trouble Manuel found himself in, all those duels? 

There was more truth to the last one, at least. Concern drew to anger and confusion, and then to an inevitable end to previous intimacies. 

His wife’s eyes alight. “I prepared a luncheon.” She casts a worried glance at the sky. “I know it is early, sirs, but perhaps, over a meal, it will be easier to--” she casts about for the word before ending with, “Easier to chat,” delicately. And, as they are still in Battersea, she says, “We might remove ourselves to a friendlier location, as well.”

“We have a garden at the townhouse, and our staff is discreet,” he tells Manuel. “There is only the matter of your second, over there.” He inclines his head towards the young man, who is watching with the sort of confusion that says the transpiring events are so far out of the ordinary that he’s been quite stunned. Hyde Park is certainly out of the question. Even if word of their troubles had not spread, Manuel does not have many friends left amongst the  _ ton _ .

“Well,” Manuel says, slow, glancing between the two of them. “Milord will say nothing, I can assure you of that. And, perhaps--” 

He looks down at his sword, which gleams bright with a few specks of blood. 

“Perhaps we can admit to a draw,” Manuel says. It must be no easy feat for him to say so, not when he has the reputation he has. Such a swordsman as he does not fight to a draw. But his handsome face looks less grim, and truly, this entire ordeal must have [dragged] on him from start to finish, as it did the two of them. 

His wife extends her now-empty sword hand. “Ride with us,” she says. “And we will picnic together at home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Per my quick research, Battersea was a popular location for Regency-era duels.


End file.
